Not Another Edge and Assorted Writings
by Snarkcasm
Summary: These assorted writings are for the Chrandy fic-a-thon: Schmoop/Sap. Fic-a-thon details inside.


**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G to T (for suggestiveness)  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Chrandy fic-athon dealing with "Schmoop"  
><strong>Pairing(s)<strong>: Chrandy+, pre-slash!Phil/John  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: How many of you out there are frustrated at the lack of Chrandy in the fandom? Well, **darlingharbour** and I want to generate more fic out there. However, we can't do that on our own. Please join us in our Chrandy fic-a-thon. Long, short, it doesn't matter—we need you to write Chrandy. This round is schmoop. The eight prompts are down below, but for convenience's sake, they are: "first fight—making up", "sick in bed", "movie night", "injury—minor", "camping", "first holiday together", "office/workplace party", and "coming home from a long trip". If you want, you can write two "author choice" prompts. If you want to participate in this fic-a-thon, just post the prompts in your Author's notes. Let's keep this going!

"**Not Another Edge" (First Fight—Making Up)**

"You, my friend, are an idiot." John played with the umbrella of an impossibly green drink that a fan had sent over. The bar in front of them was littered with Martini glasses, beer bottles, and little plastic swords, most of them broken in half from when he challenged other bar patrons to 'duels'. Randy glared over his ginger ale, but John was oblivious to his friend's growing ire. "A Grade A jackass, a moron, a—"

"I get it."

"Do you?" John's goofy, drunken smile vanished, leaving his expression frighteningly sober.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Randy nearly snarled at a woman and her friends who turned around from their shopping gossip to stare at him, but he remembered he was already on thin ice with Management and he didn't need a violation. So he swallowed his anger and kept his voice down. "I didn't do anything wrong, John."

"And I'm sure if you repeat it enough, you'll start to believe it," John hit right back.

"I saved his career!"

"By being a dick to Management? Everyone in the back knows that you two are knockin' boots on the DL. What do you think they'll think when Jay magically gets his title shot after what happened?"

The roster knew about them? Randy reeled at the revelation but kept his tone neutral. "It doesn't matter what they think. Jay's going through a tough time and Creative wouldn't get off his back. I wanted it to stop, so I did what I had to do. It doesn't concern the rest of the roster."

"You know damn well it concerns everyone when a wrestler's storyline just rapidly changes like that." John snapped his fingers. "Jay doesn't need any more flak."

Randy's grip on his alcohol-inadequate ginger ale tightened. Jay didn't say anything about anyone giving him a tough time.

"Uh-oh, that's your 'Ima-punch-someone-in-the-face' face. Lemme guess, you want to find the person who upset Jay and kick his ass, right?" Randy reluctantly nodded, and John punched him _hard _in the arm, that fucker. "See? That's the problem. Jay ain't a damsel in distress and you ain't no knight in shining armor, Jack."

"I'd do the same for you, John." John gave him such a dirty look that Randy back-pedaled spectacularly. "Well, okay, I wouldn't. But Jay's different. He's my…" 'Boyfriend' was laughable at his age; 'lover' left a nasty taste in his mouth; 'partner' seemed inadequately impersonal given what they went through to get to this point. "He's mine."

John pretended to throw up into his neon-colored drinks. "You're killin' me, Smalls. But, seriously, Jay can handle himself, man."

"He shouldn't have to." Ah, the crux of the matter, and at that moment, Randy realized he gave John enough ammunition for at least a week of ribbing. John gloated into his beer chaser, and Randy resisted the urge to body slam his stupid face into oblivion. His phone vibrated against his leg, and he fished it out. Sam.

'_Fix this.'_

'_How?'_ If Sam had any advice, he'd gladly take it. To do so otherwise was idiotic.

'_Jay doesn't need another Edge. Apologize, ass._'

At John's nagging, Randy slid his phone to the other man. His best friend whistled lowly. "Smart lady. Smart, smart lady. Why she'd ever marry you, I'll never know. But I do know this—I'd do what she says, brah."

/

Jay must've swiped his key card when he wasn't looking because it wasn't in his pocket when he went to fish it out. Randy lightly rested his head against the door. He was so fucked. Straightening up and even going so far as to shake out the tension in his arms, Randy got ready for battle and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"'S Randy." Randy could hear Jay's sigh through the thick door and braced himself for a knock-out, drag-out fight. The Canadian could be vicious when cornered—his natural sarcasm worse than a Championship title to the skull, and Randy wasn't the best at admitting he was wrong. If it weren't for Sam, they probably would have crashed and burned before they even started being whatever-the-hell-they-were.

He stepped back at the sound of the deadbolt sliding, cursing at not bringing something to appease Jay. Flowers…probably wouldn't have worked in this scenario (and would have resulted in Randy being force-fed said flowers); giving candy to a wrestler was death. On second thought, maybe it was better that he didn't have the forethought to bring something.

He was halfway through texting Sam in a blind panic when the door opened and a stone-faced Jay leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed. "I'm sorry," blurted Randy.

"For what?"

Jay was _not _going to make it easy for him; Randy could see it in his deep brown eyes. He rubbed his forehead. "Can we not do this out here at least?"

"Fine," came Jay's curt response, and he walked into the room, the door open but the atmosphere chilly. Randy closed the door behind him slowly, thinking of how he could best salvage the situation. Jay refused to look anywhere near him, and that was trouble.

"Jay, can you look at me?" It took a while, but the Canadian complied. There was no change in his expression, but his eyes practically radiated hurt and mistrust. Randy reached out tentatively and grasped Jay's hands. The blond stiffened but didn't pull away, and Randy chalked that up as a win. "I'm sorry for stepping in where I wasn't needed. You're your own man—I get that. And, I'm not trying to step on your toes o-or throw a huge hissy fit if you don't get your title. I'm not that man any more…and you're better than that. You've always been better than that. You don't need me, just like you don't need to be defined by Adam or any other Superstar—"

Jay held up a hand, and Randy shut up, grateful that Jay stopped him before he said anything worse. "You are so full of shit, you realize that—don't you, Randy?" He then grinned, shaking his head. "So full of shit."

"So…you're forgiving me?"

The blond rolled his eyes. "Randal Keith Orton, if you don't shut the fuck up this minute and kiss me, I'll—" Randy, needing no invitation other than that, pulled the smaller man to him and slid his lip over his. Jay smiled into the chaste kiss, and at that moment, Randy knew they were going to be okay.

"**Chicken Soup for the Wrestler's Soul" (Sick in Bed)**

If Jay knew Randy was going to be this much of a pain in his ass, he would have gladly volunteered to take Alanna to the zoo and have Sam deal with the Prima Donna.

"Is the soup done yet?"

"In a minute. Hold your horses." Jay gripped the wooden spoon as the pots and pans bubbled merrily and tried not to think of smothering the American with Alanna's princess pillow for added humiliation. Now what did Sam say to do? Chop the celery or did he have to cube it? He looked at the instructions in her elegant print cursive and cursed at his massive suck in the kitchen.

Two over-boiled pots, three bouts of swearing, and a small fire later, he finished the super secret Orton chicken noodle soup and ladled some in a large enough bowl to whet a Superstar's appetite. Arranging everything on a tray, he carefully made his way upstairs and into the master's bedroom…where Randy was fast asleep, cuddling one of the larger décor pillows to his chest. Rolling his eyes fondly, Jay put a lid on the soup and crawled into bed, wrapping his arms around Randy's middle, laying his cheek against Randy's back, and falling asleep to the slightly congested breathing of his man.

"**Princess Alanna's Decree" (Movie Night)**

Alanna, decked out in a sparkly pink tutu and tiara, declared tonight a movie night, and no one wanted to oppose Princess Alanna. After Jay managed to spill half the popcorn kernels in what he firmly maintained was a freak accident, Sam banished him from the kitchen, and Princess Alanna dragged him down to the floor to play 'Zookeeper' as her daddy looked on amused. Jay was a jaguar—the best jaguar ever, according to Alanna, and he wore that title with pride.

They were in the middle of an intense battle between the jaguar and a giraffe when Randy scooped her up and bounced her on his lap. "What do you want to watch, Babygirl?" Alanna's face screwed up in concentration, but both wrestlers knew exactly what she was going to pick.

"'Nightmare'!" Jay popped the Tim Burton classic into the BluRay player just as Sam set down the popcorn and other delicious goodies. Already calculating the amount of extra gym time, Jay thought 'screw it', grabbed a bowl, and stuffed handfuls of sinfully buttered popcorn into his face. Sam curled into Randy, taking Alanna from his arms, and Jay settled next to her, putting his arm over the back of the couch. During the duller parts of the movie, he couldn't help but play with the freshly buzzed nape of Randy's neck, delighting in both the smoothness and the shivers he could feel across the Viper's skin. Sam sent him a knowing look, and he laid a slobbery kiss on her cheek to a chorus of 'ew's from both Randy and Alanna. Jay flicked Randy's ear and tousled Alanna's hair, grinning so wide that his face hurt. This was it. This was home.

"**Non-Interference" (Camping)**

They had flipped a coin. Heads was camp set up; tails food gathering. John had whooped when his and Randy's coin came up heads, leaving Jay and Phil with scrounging up something for dinner. Phil had grabbed the fishing rods and tackle kit with aplomb, marching off to the little lake. Jay hung back, adjusting the baseball cap on his head.

"Do you want to trade, Jay?" Randy asked, concerned at the Canadian's reluctance. When Cena suggested a weekend of camping during their rare off-time (because he was a massive idiot and an adrenaline junkie), Jay refused, citing traumatic childhood camping memories. It took three straight days of groveling and John's puppy dog eyes before the blond caved. Jay shook his head and left with a muted smile.

"Dude, who pissed in his oatmeal?" John asked in the middle of fumbling through with the first tent. Randy looked up from the directions, frowning sharply. "Hey now, don't look at me like that. I was just asking a question. Now get your fatass up and help me with this stupid tent."

"You're a real fucker, Cena, did you know that?"

"Your lips keep flapping, but I don't see you helping."

/

It took Phil thirty minutes to ask him an incredibly personal question. Jay was proud Phil resisted the urge for as long as the busybody did…as well as creeped out. "Well, uh, we first…'hooked up' way back when I was teaming up with Irvine. It wasn't nothing personal—or at least I thought it wasn't, and when TNA wanted me, I left without a word. It took a while after I re-signed to WWE to realize that Randy was pissed that I left without telling him. In all fairness, he turned asshole quick when stardom started to hit, and I didn't want to be a part of that. Why do you want to know?"

Phil shrugged, spitting out his gum and adjusting his line. "Just curious."

"You…just curious?" Now Jay was intrigued. "Spill the beans, Brooks."

"What are you—a preteen girl from the sixties? 'Golly gee, Mister'—"

"Fuck you, Straightedge. Talk."

Phil explosively sighed, teeth grinding on a fresh stick of gum. "What about Orton's wife?"

"Y'mean, Sam?"

"Sam."

"What about her?"

"She's…okay with this? You…fucking her husband?"

Jay was silent for a minute, adjusting both his line and his thoughts. "At first, she wasn't. I don't think any wife would be. And I wasn't okay with doing anything with Randy if she wasn't okay with it. But she and I…we had a talk, and we agreed that Randy needed us both, that I needed to be a part of his life. We didn't want him to go back to drugs or self-destruct."

"It couldn't have been that easy, though, right?"

Jay shook his head. "It wasn't. I stayed over there for a weekend as a trial period and everything that went wrong did. I was trying too hard to be perfect, and that isn't me. At all. Sam musta seen something in me, though, because she gave Randy permission to—"

"I got it."

"Mansex."

"I _got _it."

"Mind-meltingly hot man-on-man sex."

"You are an ass, Reso."

/

Jay and Phil were more successful, settling down by the fire to de-bone and skin their six fish while John and Randy were still puzzling out the first tent. Wanting to actually sleep in a tent before the damn sun went down, he called Randy over to him and sent Phil to help John with set-up. He looped his arms around Randy's, and leaned into him, toes curling as the wilderness tainted Randy's normal GQ-readied scent. Maybe camping wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"Man, you two are hopeless," he said into Randy's thick hoodie sleeve as the logs snapped and crackled merrily. Randy tugged down Jay's hood in response, temporarily blinding him. He pushed Randy away, ripping back his hood to see Phil and John's heads bent together as they struggled to read the directions. Something niggled at Jay; something didn't feel right. He asked Randy if he noticed something weird about the two of them, and Randy shrugged.

"It's just…Phil asked me some weird questions when we were fishing, about you and me and how we ended up together. Whatever, I'm cool with telling people. It was just...awkward, like..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say exactly.

"You think…" Randy's eyes widened as he looked back to Phil and John. "Should we…should we help?"

Jay shook his head firmly and grabbed Randy's bicep in warning. "Let 'em figure it out themselves, Orton."

"**Warriors Are Not Alone" (Injury – minor)**

Jay gritted his teeth as the medics flitted around him. One of the medics urged him to unclench his fists—if he could do that, wouldn't he have done so to smack the idiot round the head? His pectoral muscle hit the turnbuckle with enough force to reinjure it and he landed wrong on the steel steps; everything wasn't all fun and rainbows.

"Mr. Reso, unclench your fist for us please. We need to assess the damage." Medical gloved fingers gripped his fingers and wrenched them back flat. He screamed; he couldn't help it—the pain was too much for him to take.

"Broken ring finger," said someone dispassionately. "Mr. Reso, do you feel pressure here?" Jay writhed at the stabbing pain somewhere near his elbow and stamped his foot against the cot.

"Is his pectoral still attached?"

"Yes. His elbow is dislocated which is causing the rest of the arm to lock up and purple." Jay faded in and out of the conversation about him, pain crashing into his nerve endings and stealing his breath away.

"_What happened_?" Jay swatted the air with his good arm, hoping against hope that he hit Randy in the face. There was no reason for the Viper to be so fucking loud.

"Mr. Orton, sir," one of the medics demurred gently. "You can't be back here—"

"The hell I can't! Now answer me—what happened? Is it his—?"

Jay snapped his fingers. He was tired of being ignored by both his doctor and his boyfriend-thing-person. "It's a dislocated elbow and a broken finger. I'm fine. I've had worse. Let them do their job, Orton"

Chastened, Randy moved to the side and a medic immediately took his spot lifting up Jay's arm and shoving his elbow back into joint without so much as a by-your-leave. He heard the pop, but it took a while for the agony to reach him, and when it did, he arched his back, groaning and huffing. He could see Randy moving towards him in the corner of his eyes, and he waved the Viper off, face screwed up in the effort not to scream.

"We'll need to take an x-ray to see the complete damage. Olsen, call the nearest hospital and see if we can borrow their facilities."

Randy had that stubborn look to his face, the one that said that he was going to tail the ambulance all the way to the hospital. Jay shook his head and dismissed the medics from the room. He struggled into a seated position, careful not to disturb his broken finger and recently set elbow. "Go to Sam, Randy. They miss you." Randy wavered, and Jay injected as much persuasion as he could in his tired voice. "Go. I'll be fine, promise."

Randy held his uninjured hand for a long moment before he left. Jay settled back into the hard cot, preparing himself for two weeks of non-action and pain-in-the-ass physical therapy. He was helped into a gurney and shoved into the back of an ambulance. He almost wished he didn't tell Randy to go, but wrestlers were lucky to get one house show in a year and Randy's family needed him more than he did. The ride was pure agony; the ambulance hit every pothole in the fucking _world_, and Jay swore there was a red light vendetta against him, but when the doors opened and he was hoisted gently from the cab, he had a hard time believing what he saw.

There, at the entrance to the waiting room, mascara-stained tears trailing unnoticed down her cheeks, was Sam. Her perfect hair was a mess and bright eyes wide and red, but she never looked more beautiful. She flew towards him and settled her hands tentatively on the gurney security rim.

"Alanna? Randy?" he asked, all too focused on the redness of her nose and the high splotches on her cheeks. He wanted to kiss her, touch her; confirm his senses that she was real and didn't resist the urge, reaching up with his good hand and running fingers through the smoother strands of her hair. She leaned into the touch, needing the grounding just as much as—if not more than— he.

"Randy's dropping her off at Papa and Gram-Gram's hotel room. He'll be here in a bit. Alanna wanted to come, but we thought that seeing you injured wasn't something you wanted her to see."

"And it's past her bed time—she has school in the morning."

Sam nodded, a relieved laugh squeezing a few more tears from her eyes.

"Excuse us, ma'm, but we have to get Mr. Reso's x-ray. Please wait out in the waiting room."

She made an understanding noise, but all her attention was focused on Jay. "We'll be waiting for you when you come out, okay? Love you."

"Love you."

"**Drive to Ontario" (First holiday together)**

Jay placed his free hand over Randy's jiggling knee, keeping his eyes on the winding road. "I never thought you'd be a nervous wreck over this."

"I'm meeting your family for the first time," said Randy in his perfect deadpan. "Everything is peachy."

Jay chuckled, turning down the volume on the radio. All respect to Freddie Mercury, but "Another One Bites the Dust" probably wasn't the most appropriate song to play whilst soothing his terrified partner. "Everything will be fine. When Sam's flight gets in, they'll be too busy fawning over Alanna to care about us and our relationship."

"Until then?"

Oh, but a nervous Randy was adorable. "Until then…we'll play it cool. My nephews all love you. And, I think my mom has a crush on you. You're golden."

"**Coming Out" (Office/workplace party)**

Jay walked into the room and would have immediately walked out if Randy wasn't behind him blocking his only escape route. "Dick," he muttered viciously through a tight-lipped smile, turning around to face the crowd of celebrating Superstars and Divas. Proudly displayed above their heads was a crudely hand-painted banner with blob-like baby chickens chasing after earthworm vipers and in loopy cursive the _pièce de résistance _read: "Happy Coming Out, Jay + Randy!" A wiseass tacked a "Finally" on the bottom. It looked like Adam's chicken scratch, and Jay beamed, vision a little cloudy at the gesture. He had always been afraid of Adam's reaction to his sexuality, and seeing the measure of support from not only his best friend but his coworkers touched him.

Matthew and Kofi bounced towards them, still in their matching neon green and orange ring gear. Jay wisely ducked as soon as he saw the cheap bottle of champagne, but he wasn't fast enough for the handful of glitter. He gagged as some of the gritty shit got into his mouth and scraped his tongue with his nails. Booze-soaked arms surrounded his torso and a wet face nuzzled against his. He smacked at Randy's arm, laughter bubbling from his lips.

Some idiot, and Jay had a strong suspicion that it was John Cena, began banging a knife against a champagne glass, and it wasn't long before the rest of the roster got on the bandwagon, catcalling for a kiss from the newly-outed couple. With a resigned shake of his head, Jay kissed Randy to wild whoops. He pulled away before the kiss got too heated, a teasing smirk on his face as he turned to his disappointed friends. "You'll have to pay to see the rest."

"**Home At Last" (Coming home from long trip)**

They both knew this day would come, but it was still a kick in the nuts. Christian had just been drafted into Raw. Jay's grip on Randy's hand—far out of viewers' sight—tightened as the rest of the roster cheered. The cameras cut, and the cheers turned into sympathetic noises and boos. Stephen patted Jay on the back while Natalie swore up a storm at how unfair it was that Jay was moving to the other brand. Jay thanked everyone for their support, but when it was time for him to go to the other locker room, Randy refused to let go of his hand. The Viper pulled him off to the side.

"I love you…you know that, right?"

"It's not like I'm leaving forever, Randy. We'll still see each other."

No matter how upbeat Jay tried to be, their bittersweet parting kiss still felt like a goodbye.

/

Six months. It had been six months, and Jay was miserable. The schedule was as grueling as usual, but without Randy and their brief distractions, every week stretched on forever. John tried his best to distract him by taking him out to bars and such—and Jay was grateful, but it just wasn't the same. He stared at the red circle on his schedule. Three more days, and he'd have a break. He had his ticket to St. Louis already purchased and with a quick Skype with Randy and then Sam, he confirmed his plans. Thursday couldn't come quickly enough.

The day of his flight, he got up extra early to burn off the butterflies in his stomach. The jog around the neighborhood had calmed his nerves considerably, but the icky feeling flared up with a vengeance mid-flight. Stupid insecurities that he thought he had buried long before kept attacking him, whispering their poison in his ears. What if Randy wanted to forget him? What if Sam wanted to call it quits? What if he got the dates wrong? What if he was called back? What if they didn't show up by the gate? By the time the flight touched down, he was a wreck. Clutching his carry-on bag in a white-knuckled grip, he searched for his taxi but didn't see his name.

Oh.

He shook his head; it was fine. He could call his own cab from the airport—he was an expert by now. He was halfway to calling a local cab company when his name being shouted at the top of someone's lungs had him nearly dropping his phone. He turned around just in time to catch Alanna, her body hitting him with all the enthusiasm she had in her eight-year-old frame.

"Uncle Jay!"

"'Lanna, you've gotten so big, Babygirl." She was _so_ tall now, too tall for him to carry comfortably. She beamed up at him, grabbing his hands with no-longer baby plump fingers. God, he hadn't seen her since her birthday. "Did you get my gifts?"

"Of course I did," she said matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes in an all-too-familiar gesture. She switched gears, bouncing up and down and yanking on his arm. "Can I see it?"

Jay laughed and dug through his carry-on for his crushed velvet bag, slowly withdrawing his WWE Championship belt.

A low whistle had his skin tingling. "That's a pretty piece of gold you got there, Reso." Randy. Jay looped an arm around Randy's neck as he tried to play it cool, but the tremors in his body gave him away. It seemed as if Randy wasn't unaffected as well as he felt the arm around his waist tighten. "I missed you. God, I missed you so much."

Jay, too overwhelmed by the rush of emotion, couldn't speak. He hoped peppering Randy's skin with kisses more than made up for it.


End file.
